


Ten (or Twelve) Plays in the Life of Geoffrey Tennant

by Sage (sageness)



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Backstory, Don't Have to Know Canon, Drunk Sex, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Shakespeare, Spoilers, Theatre, Yuletide, Yuletide 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/Sage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten (or twelve) plays, approximately, in the life of one Geoffrey Tennant. And attendant drama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten (or Twelve) Plays in the Life of Geoffrey Tennant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackEyedGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackEyedGirl/gifts).



> Spoiler Warning! This story is spoilery for all three seasons of Slings & Arrows. Familiarity with canon is not required for the fic to make sense, but you may enjoy S&A far more if you watch it unspoiled.
> 
> BlackEyedGirl requested an exploration of Geoffrey and Oliver's (extremely complicated) relationship. Hopefully this is in the vicinity of what you wanted! Happy Yuletide!
> 
> Huge thanks to Petra & Desiree Armfeldt for all their beta help!

  
  
  


1\. TBD

Geoffrey paced across the boards, getting a feel for the stage under his boots. It was built of sturdy, aged hardwood and his steps never once rang hollow through the house, no matter how hard he stomped. It was a far cry from the creaking sheets of warped plywood that comprised many of the newer stages he'd known and, in some cases, helped hammer together. Care and artistry had gone into this place once, more than a century ago; he could see traces of it as he glanced left and right at the boxes, and as he looked up, and up, to the corniced ceiling and antique chandeliers that lit the house.

"So, tell us what you think." Jean-Phillipe stepped out of the stage right wings and arrived at Geoffrey's side, down center, in only eight or nine strides. "It's a shame to waste the space on old movies anyone can watch on the internet whenever they like, and even worse to let it sit empty. You think it will work?"

"It's very narrow," Geoffrey said, still trying to wrap his head around these new dimensions. The Theatre des Pins was a tall, narrow box, whereas the Swan had been all wide and gently sloping curves. 

"It is, but the acoustics are _wonderful_!" Jean-Phillipe let his last word expand into song, and the notes flew up into the balconies, the boxes, the catwalks, and probably scared the pigeons off the roof. The sound lingered. There would never be a need to mic an actor in this place.

Geoffrey stepped away from the edge of the apron, noting the size of the orchestra pit. "Excuse me," he said. "I just need to try something." He cleared his throat, drew up a lungful of Falstaff, and focused on Jean-Phillipe. "Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night's body be called thieves of the day's beauty: let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon; and let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal."

The words seemed to expand and fill the space, even when he dropped "under whose countenance we steal" into a bare whisper. Jean-Phillipe was smiling broadly.

"I have the paperwork right here," said Catherine from behind them. "One season's trial, from this September through June. The historical society loves the idea of doing real theatre here. Imagine taking this place from a Victorian cabaret to actual Shakespeare? The press is going to love it!"

Geoffrey chewed on his lip for a moment, then on his shirt cuff. "Just a moment, please. Don't move." Then he jumped down into the audience, jogged several rows back, and had a seat. "Keep talking among yourselves, please!" he yelled. They laughed and proceeded to ask one another if they knew what Geoffrey was doing. He could hear them perfectly. He could see them perfectly, and why on earth had no one snapped this place up already?

More importantly, he could see his actors, whoever they turned out to be, on that narrow stage. It was deep, at least. They had plenty of room to build upward and make use of the vertical space: staircases, balconies, trees, cliffs. "Is there a trap?" he called.

Jean-Phillipe brightened. "Yes, but it's over here." He took a few steps upstage left and pointed at his feet. "I can show you how to get to the passage, if you want?"

"It'll do." Geoffrey jogged back up to the pit, waved at Catherine for the pen and papers, and signed with a flourish. Then he said, "You know I don't have a company yet. I don't even have a stage manager. I don't do budgets, although I'm used to working on a shoestring, so—" He shrugged. "—you'll have to tell me what I can spend. Once we get a stage manager, the numbers should come together pretty quickly."

"Actually, I'm a little ahead. Right now I'm nearly done with our grant request to the Ministry of Culture for next season's budget," Catherine said brightly, "assuming we all want to continue after this season is over. Our immediate funding is all local, province of Quebec, and private endowments, but it's come together surprisingly well."

"Ah, well. Don't mention Lear in the grant request and you'll probably be all right." He made a face. "Although, to be honest, you might not want to mention me, either."

 

~~

 

He moved into his office a few days later—literally, as he was supposed to be apartment hunting in the city while Ellen remained back in New Burbage and packed the house. His office was a small box above the principal actor's dressing room, and it at least contained both a desk and a couch. He could afford a hotel. He could afford a rather nice hotel, even, given the severance package they'd forced on him in the end, but there was nothing quite like prowling a new theatre in the wee hours to learn its secrets.

She creaked in the wind, for one thing. And the pipes in the basement shrieked at the turn of one particular hot water tap. The props closet was just as vertically oriented as the rest of the building and utterly vacant. The green room was empty, uncarpeted, and devoid of features except for a wall of mirrors and an inexplicable ballet barre. It was also freezing, never mind that it was the middle of summer. There were no costumes anywhere, not even an empty rack with broken casters. The lighting booth contained the film projector and a clearly retrofitted light board. He hoped it was up to code.

They'd be lucky to open any show before the end of the year, and when they did, they'd still have to get the audience past the outmoded remnants of vaudeville variety shows and half-naked ladies dancing the can-can.

"Oh, Oliver," he whispered, and then, helplessly, he glanced around in guarded expectation. As if Geoffrey's feet on this bare, midnight stage would be enough to pull Oliver back to him. But Oliver didn't appear. Didn't make a crack about Geoffrey's turn as Kent marking his return to the stage, after all. Didn't rub eager hands together and say, "So, what are we collaborating on now?" There was nothing. Geoffrey pursed his lips and resumed staring at the empty space and jotting notes into the battered leather notebook he'd scavenged from Oliver's stuff. The seats had been replaced in the last couple of decades, at least, and there wasn't any evidence of mice nesting in the upholstery. The roof didn't leak; that was always a plus. The principal dressing rooms had shower cubicles that looked as if they dated from the 1930s, but they worked: he'd used one. 

In short, it could be a hell of a lot worse. He could be renting space in a bare warehouse and borrowing metal folding chairs for the audience. That was true theatre sans argent. That was wild, no-holds-barred guerrilla theatre. 

Geoffrey quelled the inner, definitely inner, voice that told him that impoverished guerrilla theatre was what he ought to be doing: that it was the only honest choice. Because that was bullshit. Jean-Phillipe had called him out of the blue and laid out his and Catherine's plan. "We want your help," he'd said, and the timing was so perfect as to make Geoffrey wonder if Oliver had pulled some strings for him in the afterlife. Or if maybe Charles had. God knew Charles owed him. What Jean-Phillipe had described felt radical and new. "Let's take a preserved historical space that the city can't tear down or sell and do something no one thinks is possible. Help us make this happen, Geoffrey." Saying yes was easy. 

But now Geoffrey was sitting alone in the audience of an empty theatre with a notebook on his lap, a ghost light on the stage—placed there by Geoffrey did not know whom—and an almost deathly quiet around him. The Lear was only a month gone. Oliver, likewise, was only a month gone. Or three years. Or a month. Or three years. Or a month. Or three—rarely had he been so glad to hear his phone ring in the middle of the night. 

"You awake?" Ellen asked.

"Is it late? I'm down in the theatre. There isn't a clock."

"It's after one."

"Huh." That would explain some things, probably. "How are you? Is everything all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine. More of the same. It's a maudlin process, packing up a life."

"House," he said, and she sighed in his ear. They'd had this conversation the night before, too, and they would probably keep having it until after they were settled.

"Yes, life goes on. I know," she recited, and he could hear the silent eyeroll. 

"Inexorably," he replied in his best doom-and-gloom baritone.

She laughed, then, as he'd hoped. "That reminds me. I have a list of your things I don't know whether to pack or throw out. I sent you an email."

"Oh God."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, just the computer Catherine had them install the other day. I think the only reason she ordered it was so she could send me annoying emails day and night. I hate the thing. At least Anna would give me coffee before packing me off to do the scutwork." Geoffrey yawned and headed up the stairs to his office. "I miss Anna. She always had everything under control—or as much under control as anything involving New Burbage ever was. Oh!" he said, suddenly remembering. "There is some good news. We're going to start interviewing stage managers on Friday. Or they are. I plan to be elsewhere."

Ellen cleared her throat. "Looking for a place for us to live, I hope?"

"Well, yes, that is a priority," he admitted, and it was, at least theoretically. Certainly for her, and they were married now and he definitely did not want her camping out in his office, so that was something he should probably give some thought to. At some point. They chatted sleepily for a while longer, much as they did back at home, and then Ellen realized she was drifting off and said goodnight. Geoffrey unfolded his blanket and stripped down to t-shirt and boxers to sleep. Oliver wasn't sitting on the desk, he noticed. The absence of Oliver's skull there continued to seem strange, and yet Oliver's letter had said he wanted it to be used in all future performances of Hamlet. Presumably that meant at New Burbage, given that he'd run the place for over a decade, so Geoffrey had left Oliver's skull on the blotter with the letter between his teeth. Let Darren deal with that.

Regardless, Oliver wasn't there. Still. Oliver was not waiting for him, whether he'd been gone for three years or a month or three years _and_ a month, it did not fucking matter! He rolled over and counted a few breaths. Then he silently recited the last scene of Lear to lull his overactive brain to sleep. He whispered into the dark, "She will not come again. Never, never, never, never," and recalled the way Oliver had vanished for the final time, walking off into the dark.

His last thought before drifting off was, "Well, fuck. I guess I am sane."

 

2\. Henry V

Geoffrey's first summer at the New Burbage Shakespearean Festival was when he was twenty and at university in Toronto. It had taken some schedule wrangling and a lot of promises and the usual hassle with the registrar over whether he could count it as hours toward his theatre degree. But then it was May and he was onstage auditioning for any part they might give him. He would stand at the back and hold a cardboard horse if that's what they wanted. He'd paint scenery. He'd understudy for Alice, the lady's maid, and wear a dress all summer, for God's sake. 

"You're kidding," he said before letting out a whoop of joy. 

The rest of the young company were less surprised. Of course they'd given The Boy to Geoffrey, some of the other actors muttered, no one else was both young and good enough. None of the other apprentices had anything like such an important role, although a few of them at least had lines. The rest were soldiers, messengers, squires, and attendants. King Henry was to be played by Brian Jacobs, and the director for this show was someone named Oliver Welles. Geoffrey didn't know him, but apparently Mrs. Silverstone was really excited to have him back in Canada. 

Oliver yelled a lot, even at Brian. 

Opening night was the most exhilarating thing he'd ever felt in his life. The Swan was huge, and a standing ovation in a theatre that big was—holy shit! Why weren't there words for this? Geoffrey wanted to hug everyone. He probably hugged everyone. Even Brian.

The cast party began at the theatre bar, then staggered en-drunken-masse back to the old Victorian rooming house where the young company boarded because there was only so much making out you could do at the theatre bar, apparently, before someone told you to go find a room. The party was already—or still—in progress there, and endless cups of alcohol were being passed around, including actual trashcan punch. Geoffrey took anything he was handed and couldn't have stopped grinning if he'd wanted to.

"You were amazing," someone told him and kissed him before Geoffrey even caught a clear look at their face. Then there was a group hug and more kissing and it was standing room only in the house and everyone seemed to want to hug him and God only knew how many drinks he'd had and everyone felt so good.

He lost a little time, he thought, but then there was a cheer and a general shout of "Oliver!" Geoffrey didn't hear much of what was said until someone pressed pause on the stereo's cassette deck, at which point Oliver laughed into the relative silence and said, "Oh don't do that, I only popped by to say congratulations on a great opening! Turn the music back on and have fun. And remember you have a one o'clock call for the matinee tomorrow! Preferably sober!"

Geoffrey laughed. The early show was going to be one giant lurching hangover, and he said so to Oliver as Oliver drew him out of the crowd and up the stairs to Geoffrey's room. "Just a quick word," Oliver said. "Sorry," Oliver said. And once they were upstairs, "You were brilliant, really. The way your face lights up when you say the line about guarding the king's luggage." And after the first kiss, "Oh, you've been in the punch."

Oliver tasted like whisky. Geoffrey had already kissed at least half a dozen people tonight, probably many more than that. He didn't know, and he liked the way Oliver fit in his arms and liked the way Oliver smelled. "It was really okay? The show?" Geoffrey asked, because he was still too high on the show to know for sure.

Oliver snorted. "You were wonderful. That thing you do with your eyes when the Boy realizes Pistol is no better than the others—here, help me get you out of these jeans."

Geoffrey fumbled with Oliver's shirt, but he was too far gone for buttons. All he wanted was to kiss whatever he could reach. It was a great opening. The ovations, God! And, oh look, Oliver's skin.

 

~~

 

"Oh, lovely," said a familiar voice in the wee hours of the morning. Geoffrey lay naked in his bed, the room was spinning, the light was too bright, and someone was yanking him up into a sitting position. "Can you stand?" Darren demanded.

"Darren," Geoffrey groaned. "Isss spinny."

Above him, Darren was talking in his declaiming voice. "Geoffrey, as fond of you as I am, I'm not sharing a bed with you while you're—is that even your come? No, never mind. I do not want to know." There was a pause, then he muttered, "You can't take a shower right now, you'd drown. Goddammit. Fine, I'll sleep downstairs."

"Loud," Geoffrey moaned into the crook of his arm. He was still sitting, still spinning, still naked, and kind of itchy. A moment later, he was asleep, curled at the foot of his bed.

Around eleven Geoffrey woke again, this time to the smell of coffee and to Darren poking him in the shoulder until he sat up and took the steaming mug. "Thanks," he mumbled. After a few sips, his brain started working a little. "Darren, you're here. Hi!"

Darren perched on the edge of the desk with his own mug. "Astute. Nice to see you're in form."

"Ass." Geoffrey shut his eyes and drank more coffee. Blessed caffeine. When a little more of his brain was working, Geoffrey asked, "When did you get in?"

Darren shrugged. "Two-thirty or so? I had to work until close, so I couldn't get up here any earlier."

"Oh. Did you come get me? I don't remember...huh. I don't remember a lot."

"You were passed out cold."

"Huh." Geoffrey had another sip as he tried to recall anything after leaving the bar. Someone who looked like Twiggy had kissed him, but a lot of people had kissed him. "I had a lot to drink."

"And you smell like it." Darren vanished into the washroom for a second and then returned with a bottle of Excedrin and a cup of water. "Here, before the headache sets in. How was opening?"

"Thanks." Geoffrey swallowed two pills with the rest of his coffee, then he slammed the water much like he'd chugged the first drink at the bar. "It was fucking amazing. Best thing I've ever been in."

Darren's gaze was weirdly fond, but Geoffrey didn't have the braincell function to figure out what was going on. "I'm looking forward to seeing it," Darren said. "There are two shows today, right?"

Geoffrey squeezed his eyes shut. "Fuck."

Darren laughed and pushed himself off the desk. "I'll go and see if I can find some toast. Please take this opportunity to bathe. You really do reek, dear."

Geoffrey stumbled into the washroom, brushed his teeth while he waited for the hot water to reach the shower, and took inventory of his reflection in the mirror. There were at least two hickeys he didn't remember having yesterday, plus dried jizz on his stomach and thighs that almost certainly had not involved Darren. Whenever they'd hooked up in the past, Darren had always made a point of cleaning them up afterward, and, Darren was right: he was kind of foul.

Geoffrey was a little more than half-dressed when Darren returned bearing toast and more coffee. He gagged melodramatically as Geoffrey tugged the soiled sheets off his bed. "Those, my friend, ought to be incinerated."

"I'll wash them on hot," Geoffrey groused.

"They smell like a biological hazard." Darren appropriated the center of the bare mattress, setting down the plate of toast and holding up two fresh coffee cups.

"Thanks." Geoffrey drank yet more wonderful, life-giving caffeine, risked a bite of dry toast, and decided he was feeling human enough to assuage his curiosity. "So, can you fill me in on last night at all? When you got here?"

Darren looked up from the toast with an expression Geoffrey couldn't read. "Ah, no. Sorry. You, er, looked much the same then as you did this morning. Bio-hazard and all."

"Huh." Geoffrey chewed on that along with his toast. "Well, I guess if anything important happened, someone will tell me."

"One would hope, yes," Darren said archly.

Geoffrey made a command decision to ignore Darren's tone. He hadn't been there last night—if he had, then things would have been different, but it wasn't as if they'd ever made any commitments. Darren was only here today to see the play. Mostly. Ostensibly. He said, "You wanna make out?"

Darren laughed. "I take it you're feeling better?"

Geoffrey smiled hopefully. "You came up to see me, you brought me breakfast in bed, you gave me headache pills, and as far as I know, I haven't even gotten to kiss you yet."

Darren glanced at the clock radio on the nightstand. "All right. It's ten 'til noon. That gives us an hour until call, yes?"

"Yep," he said. Darren's reply was lost in their kiss.

 

3\. Pygmalion

Oliver cast Geoffrey as Freddie Eynsford-Hill while he was still doing eight shows a week as the good-for-nothing younger son in Death of a Salesman. He was so desperate for a chance to do some comedy that he hardly even minded when people kept humming the annoying, inevitable music from My Fair Lady. He'd even caught himself half-singing lines from "On The Street Where You Live", for God's sake. It was like a contagion. 

Freddie was a much smaller role than Happy, and, if he was honest, it was a welcome break. It gave Geoffrey time to sit in the audience and learn about the process as a whole. This was only his second play with Oliver directing, while Salesman was in the hands of a visiting director whose directorial style had been described as "very hands-off". In practice, that translated to a lot of Geoffrey not being sure where his mark was or if he was playing Hap as too sympathetic to Biff or too much of a jerk to Willy. But, God. If he'd ever wanted a contrast. Oliver was...maybe back during Henry V, Geoffrey had simply been too young to appreciate the scope of what Oliver did? He didn't know.

Now he sat and watched as Oliver yelled at the actor playing Henry Higgins. "This is Shaw, not bloody Lerner and Loewe. If you're going to have romantic chemistry with anyone in this play, for God's sake have it with Pickering or else have it with your mother—the text at least supports that. Higgins doesn't even believe Eliza is human! She's only there to pick up after you and speak as directed!" Then he turned to Eliza. "And you! At night you dream of having your own flower shop and, occasionally, kissing Freddie. Got it?"

"Flower shop, Freddie," she repeated, a sparkle in her eye. Then she winked at Geoffrey and everyone laughed. Even Oliver. 

Then he said, "Again from the top. Gentlemen, you have a pretty new dolly to dress and feed and play God with! Don't mistake her for something with human dignity."

Geoffrey startled on the last words. Because that was awful. It was the terrible truth that made My Fair Lady so creepy.

But then, behind Higgins' back, Susan, the girl playing Eliza, mock-kicked Higgins in the rear. Everyone in the audience laughed, and she only stood aside, hands folded, blinking innocently. Geoffrey felt a slow smile settle on his face. Freddie would move heaven and earth for that girl. A chance to kiss her fingertips would have him over the moon.

"More bombast!" Oliver yelled. Apparently, he didn't hear Cyril's snicker.

 

4\. The Seagull

"Really." The look on Oliver's face was both doubtful and guardedly impressed. "Why this one?"

Geoffrey shrugged. "I like it. The characters are all interesting people, and there's a compelling emotional arc."

"The thing about Chekhov is that the plays are so passive." Oliver tapped his pen against his blotter. "Most of the action takes place offstage. What the audience sees is mostly reaction. And then there's the Symbolist issue."

"Well, I don't think I'm ready to direct any pitched battles," Geoffrey said with a nervous chuckle. "And there's nothing wrong with making the audience think about the consequences of lust and moral vacancy. Besides there are four good roles for women—that will make the ladies happy—and I want Susan for Nina."

"Another role where she rides off into a sunset of hard work and not a great deal of success. Have you asked her yet?"

"No, not officially. We've talked about what roles might be fun, given the chance, but we've all done that. There weren't any promises made."

Oliver steepled his fingers. "And your Trigorin?"

"Brian—"

"Isn't old or distinguished enough. Yet."

"Oliver—"

"Please. Trigorin's supposed to be in his late thirties—just young enough to make Irina feel sexy and still old enough to make seducing Nina faintly disgusting."

"That's because he is disgusting."

"Is he?" Oliver's eyebrows shot up. "Are you sure? Because if you're going to take that attitude, then maybe you should consider a different play."

"What?" Geoffrey protested. "She's two steps from being his daughter-in-law! He knocks her up and abandons her. It's horrible."

"Yes, it is, but you can't look at it all from Nina's point of view! How is Trigorin supposed to react when a beautiful twenty-year-old throws herself at him? Everyone in that play makes bad decisions, whether out of foolishness or naivete or selfishness or simple blind lust. That's the whole point: you make a mistake and keep going forward."

"Unless you're Konstantin," Geoffrey put in, but he was already deep in thought, considering the characters' various misguided choices.

"True," Oliver answered after a moment. "No one wants to be Konstantin, all unloved, impoverished, and alone." He sighed deeply and asked, "Does that help any?"

"Quite a bit, yes." Geoffrey rose, smiling. "Thank you. I'll try to have the whole proposal written up by next week."

"Don't promise anyone any roles yet."

"Well, no," he said, puzzled. "Of course not. Nothing's settled."

"I meant," Oliver said patiently, "that we may be able to bring in some outside talent. I'll have to see what's in the budget, but Trigorin's a great role for someone like Jeremy Irons, and there are plenty of grande dames of the theatre who would love a chance at Irina."

Geoffrey swallowed hard. "Really?" That was far above and beyond what he'd envisaged.

Oliver laughed. "They're only actors, Geoffrey. If you want to direct, you're going to have to learn to lose the awe. You are in charge, not them. There's nothing worse than coddling prima donnas."

"I was only thinking that it's my first time directing," Geoffrey said a little defensively. "I mean, that isn't for a class. This is real."

"Well, of course it's real, don't be ridiculous." Oliver held his gaze for a moment. "Geoffrey, I know the way you approach a text. You have good instincts. You've played numerous different roles with us, and you've worked with, what, four different directors now?"

"Counting the workshop play, five here at the Festival. Plus everything before and a few plays in the off-season."

"There. So trust me when I say that you know how it's done. Now do it." 

"Now do it," he repeated, blinking. Then louder he said, "Okay, I'll just go and...do that."

 

5\. Twelfth Night

Geoffrey was sure he was too young to be playing Orsino, but then the kids Oliver had cast as Viola and Sebastian were literal eighteen-year-old fraternal twins right out of high school. The girl, Aimee, was incredible—practically a prodigy—and the boy, Adam, stared at the actor playing Antonio with big liquid eyes just like Cesario was giving Orsino, and Christ. This was too much.

"I don't know if I can do this," Geoffrey said that day after rehearsal, when he collapsed into his habitual visitor's chair in Oliver's office while Oliver poured them both a drink. 

"You are decidedly not engaging with the text, given that Orsino is five short acts from marrying that girl."

"She's a kid!" 

"She's legal," Oliver sing-songed.

"Don't be gross."

"It's true! Besides, back in the day—"

"Please. There was no back in the day in Illyria. It's fictional!"

"Geoffrey." Oliver paused and waited for Geoffrey to meet his eyes. "You are a better actor than this."

Geoffrey looked away. "I know the role."

"Cesario wants to serve you."

"Viola wants—"

"Viola's a shipwrecked teenager who's just lost her brother. She wants to stop being Viola for a while and be someone with independence and a fun job that takes her mind off how shitty her life's become. So she does. And you, my dear, are supposed to fall for her."

"I know, I know, but—" He sighed.

Oliver was staring at him over his glass. It was a look that had felt like sandpaper at first, but Geoffrey was used to it now and ignored it. Oliver's _I want that_ expression, that spark in his eye and the moistening of his lips. The way his whole posture belied his yearning. Geoffrey stared back as blandly as he could. His mother had always said that if he ignored them, they'd go away. Failing that, a simple "No thank you" would usually suffice. Most of the time it did, but then there was Oliver, who hadn't gone away. At least he was good for arguing through a text.

"Cesario is brilliant and exciting and beautiful and only wants to serve you," Oliver tried again.

"Orsino's a spoiled brat."

"He doesn't deserve to be served?" Oliver asked slyly. "Or you don't believe an older man can feel passionately for someone much younger, as if age had anything to do with personal compatibility, charm, sexual magnetism, or mutual attraction."

Geoffrey squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "No! He wants Olivia because she's powerful and has initiative. Viola's smart and good at improvising."

For a moment, Oliver only cocked an eyebrow. Then he said quietly, "Viola is a bit of a genius, yes."

Geoffrey opened his mouth and shut it again. Sebastian and Antonio had fantastic chemistry. Geoffrey didn't know what made an eighteen-year-old boy fuckable but left his twin sister in a box marked 'pure' and 'inviolate'. "Right. Okay, clearly I have issues that aren't going to be fixed by a drink and one conversation."

Oliver snickered.

Geoffrey scrubbed his face with his hands and got to his feet. Maybe if he imagined Orsino swapping spouses with Olivia in the epilogue? It wasn't fair to Aimee, but the problem with teenagers was when they opened their mouths and revealed just how devastatingly young they were. "I have to think about this. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Oliver looked disappointed. "Skipping the bar? I only have a couple of things to finish if you can wait a moment."

Geoffrey stopped in the open doorway and shook his head. "The last thing I need right now is to have to sit and watch extremely young actors reduce their inhibitions even further. Or listen to them try to interpret the text."

Oliver laughed again. "I remember when you were in the young company." He paused. "I remember your first cast party."

"Henry V?" Geoffrey snorted. "That's good, because I sure as hell don't."

"Really?" 

Geoffrey's stomach lurched at the crestfallen look on Oliver's face, but he was one hundred percent sure he did not want to know. He'd seen enough of what Oliver got up to with apprentices, given half a chance, and besides, he had a head full of Orsino's inappropriate lust to deal with. 

"Nope, nothing between leaving the bar that night and Darren waking me up the next—oh, hi, May!" Geoffrey turned, thanking his lucky stars as he greeted her in the corridor. Over his shoulder he called, "See you tomorrow, Oliver," and told May funny rehearsal stories all the way out to the parking lot.

 

6\. Romeo and Juliet

If he'd thought he was too young for Orsino, Geoffrey was decidedly too old to be playing Romeo again, for the fourth time. He and Ellen were technically old enough to play Romeo and Juliet's parents, for Christ's sake, but she was magnificent. Climbing the balcony to her room felt real. Waking up in bed with her onstage felt real. Every kiss. Every vow. 

Geoffrey could have gone on playing their tragic five-day romance indefinitely. They had twelve weeks from the first table reading until they closed. But the relationship with Ellen only kept getting better.

The first thing Oliver cast them in after R&J was as Brick and Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, as if he could somehow force Geoffrey not to want her. 

"Does that make him Skipper?" Ellen had asked Geoffrey that night after dinner. "Does he think he's somehow Skipper to your Brick? I thought you said you and he never—"

"We didn't. Haven't. And he knows I'm not interested in him."

Ellen sighed. "I bet Titus Andronicus will be next, just so he can have me slaughtered."

"He wouldn't." Geoffrey paused. "Well, he might want to, but he can't. It isn't on the schedule for this season."

Ellen laughed and kissed him. "I don't want to have to fight him for you."

Geoffrey pulled her into his arms and ran his fingers through her hair. "You won't have to. He'll get over it and remember we're friends, and that he does actually like you."

"I like him, too, when he isn't being an ass."

Geoffrey couldn't help his smile. "I'll tell him that tomorrow. Maybe it'll help."

"Good," she said and climbed astride him.

 

7\. Hamlet

He did remember the cast party. He did remember his drunken proposal. He did remember declaring his desire to go and make a baby, as well as the astonished-but-pleased look on Ellen's face. 

He also remembered Oliver's wail of, "Don't leave me!" but at that moment, Geoffrey truly couldn't have cared less. He had who he wanted and she was wrapped around his waist. Could Oliver blame him? Really?

Ellen had told him about fucking Oliver because now that they were engaged, she thought she ought to. "Just in case it matters," she'd said matter-of-factly.

She hadn't understood Oliver's side of it at all, though. She didn't see that Oliver was trying to turn their lives into some kind of fucked up revenge tragedy, as if Oliver had learned absolutely nothing from thirty-fucking-years of Shakespeare. That was his first thought, anyway. It was enough to get him through the first three acts, but then he saw her in the wings, still dressed in all of Ophelia's innocence, and he saw what Oliver had used her to do to him. What she had allowed Oliver to do.

Except. Oliver wasn't— He wasn't enough of an asshole to do this to him. He wasn't. 

Geoffrey staggered, there on the stage, grasping for lines that weren't there. Oliver had been at his side all along. Fifteen years of—fuck. Of over-familiarity, of inviting himself along when Geoffrey had plans with other people, of arguing passionately with Geoffrey over a text in ways not unlike—

Geoffrey had never forgotten that time he woke up covered in come. Or that time during Twelfth Night when Oliver had mentioned that cast party. With that look on his face.

Oliver was exactly enough of an asshole. To take advantage of a trusting twenty-year-old kid and then flee, and nary a word when it might have been welcome. Geoffrey had been too starry-eyed to know any better. But now? Trying to shove his way into his relationship with Ellen.

Could they really blame him for jumping into the trap? Waving a prop knife, yes. Throttling that fucking swan, sure. But the rest? Having to get the fuck away from them? No, that was all on Oliver.

 

8\. The Tempest

Seven years passed and Geoffrey was struggling to make ends meet, doing Shakespeare almost for free, and pretending his life wasn't one misery stacked atop another stacked atop another. He could barely feed himself, but at least he had the satisfaction of fucking with the system and creating something honest. Of setting a storm in motion and trying his best to guide the consequences.

But it was better with actors who knew how to read their damned lines. 

It was better with an audience.

 

9\. Hamlet

If May hadn't told him she wanted him to shake the place up—well, God only knew what he'd be doing instead. 

Possibly doing time for writing bad checks.

He hadn't bet on directing Hamlet, of all things. Or on fucking Oliver showing up, sticking around, refusing to be banished except when he might actually be helpful. Or on having to direct around Oliver's interference. Or Darren being Darren Nichols, Deal With That!™. Or Ellen's refusal to engage. Or Ellen's young beau sticking his adolescent nose in. Or Terry's flirtation, which Geoffrey was determinedly ignoring. 

Fucking Oliver.

At least he apologized, finally. Even if it was off-handed.

 

10\. Macbeth

Geoffrey sat in the prop room, on the sofa that had become his bed, and watched a ghost prepare them dinner. How exactly was dinner with a dead man even possible?

There had been a moment in there somewhere, maybe around the fifth time he'd shouted, "We're not doing Oliver's Macbeth! We're doing my Macbeth!" that this season had finally clicked. It finally felt like he was allowed to be here and to direct his own vision of the play instead of Oliver's—or Henry Breedlove's, for that matter. Then Brian Jacobs, of all people, had offered his vote of confidence, and it felt like graduating—or getting hired into the company—all over again.

But now Oliver was making him soup. He'd turned a tea towel into a fucking apron. He was behaving for all the world like a 1950s housewife and comparing their quarrelsome collaborative process to something—something Geoffrey could not, would not think about. 

"It's over," Geoffrey said. He repeated it to himself silently. Again. And again. 

Whatever the fuck his psyche was doing, putting Oliver forward as some kind of posthumous boyfriend, it had gone too far. This had to stop.

Maybe it was because Darren was purposefully mangling Romeo and Juliet, as well as avoiding Geoffrey as much as possible. But there was surely enough water under that particular bridge that it couldn't be a dig at Geoffrey. All that had ended more than twenty years ago. Maybe something had happened in Berlin. Maybe someone had broken Darren's heart. Who the fuck knew.

Or maybe it was Ellen. He didn't want to imagine what was going on there. He couldn't help his suspicion that Henry had talked his way into her bed. Which was her choice. She knew how Geoffrey felt about her. When she decided she wanted him again, he'd be there. That was how it worked.

Granted, listening to the company talk about Romeo and Juliet never failed to remind him of their production, when he and Ellen were falling in love for real and nothing bad had happened yet.

But why his mind would turn all of that into Oliver playing June Cleaver in some kind of horrible misguided picture-perfect marriage fantasy? Maybe he was still crazy. He had to admit, the Geoffrey in the mirror did not look terribly sane. Maybe he had made his own damn soup.

"Your propensity for self-delusion is your greatest flaw, Geoffrey." Oliver gave him a long, despairing look and vanished.

"Fuck."

 

11\. King Lear

Geoffrey stood on stage, weeping. He wept in the bathroom. In the car. In the empty theatre. In the not-empty theatre. In his office. On the fucking sidewalk outside the church before his session with Father Andrew. On the sofa in Ellen's living room—he hesitated to think of it as theirs—after Oliver had vanished on him again.

Charles had demanded he give everything for his art. Everything. For his art. For his heart. For fuck's sake, how could he give up everything? Geoffrey didn't know what he was doing. Everyone seemed to be demanding so much and everything was going to shit, all because he'd had a vision of Lear and was doing his damnedest to make it happen.

Charles. Oliver. His goddamned selfish asshole of a father. Nothing he did was enough. It was never enough.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Father Andrew began, and Geoffrey's shoulder started to twitch, "but small children cry when they're furiously angry and have nothing they can lash out at. I'm not saying their feelings are invalid. Little kids can have a lot to be furious about. But does this make any sense? You can hardly lash out at an eighty-year-old man, and both Oliver and your father are gone."

Geoffrey swore to himself. "No, you can't punch a ghost, can you?" he said bleakly.

Father Andrew shrugged. "There's a Nerf bat in the toy box over there if you want to try. You can strangle the teddy bear—just, you know, don't rip the head off. That might be hard to fix."

Geoffrey laughed, and he didn't think it came out any more maniacal than usual.

"No, really. It's a safe outlet. If it helps the young kids, why shouldn't it help adults?" Father Andrew sat there, kind-eyed and sincere. Across the room, Oliver wasn't saying a word, only watching to see what Geoffrey would do.

Geoffrey swallowed hard and shook his head. Already his anger was fading. He remembered being nine or ten, wailing, "Why doesn't he care?" His mother hadn't had an answer; she'd only handed him a tissue and said, "Blow your nose, now. You're too old to carry on like this."

At least Charles appreciated what he was doing. What he was risking.

Oliver was still too consumed in his quest for his supposed "higher purpose" to understand.

"You want to tell me what's going on?" asked Father Andrew. "I can see you're having some thoughts."

"Not really?" Geoffrey said with a weak laugh. "You made me think about grief, I guess. But I have a thing, so maybe next time."

 

12\. Still TBD

"It's great," he told Ellen over the phone. "We've hired a woman named Lillian as stage manager, and she's already had a three hour meeting with Catherine over office staff, techs, an ASM or two, costumes, sets, and every other goddamn thing I don't want to have to deal with. It's fucking wonderful."

"I can imagine," she said. "Do we have a place to live yet?"

"Um...no?" He scrabbled at his desk for something to fiddle with, to tap, to throw against the ceiling, something. She sighed into his ear. "Sorry," he said, "and for the record, no, I do not expect you, or our things, to live in the theatre. I've just been extremely busy."

"I know."

He rushed on. "I mean, they want me to tell them what our first play will be, and I don't have a fucking clue!" 

"Geoffrey."

"No, no, no. You don't understand. There is no board approval meeting! There's no Shakespearean or classic requirement. There are nearly infinite possibilities and I don't even have Oliver here to argue it out with!"

"Please don't bring up—"

"Sorry, sorry. And before that, well, I had a limited cast, no budget, no money to pay royalties, and one working spotlight, so the options were extremely limited. And now! Now we have this glorious tall shoebox of a space and a little more than two nickels to rub together for once and no company and no crew and—" 

"Geoffrey! Breathe!" she yelled.

"Fuck. Sorry." He inhaled deeply and let it go. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too."

"I miss Oliver."

"What?" she said in surprise.

"I told you. I haven't seen him since Lear. He's gone. He's passed over, or whatever the hell you call it. He isn't here anymore, Ellen, and I don't know how to do this without him."

Over the phone he heard her take a breath, then take a sip of something, and then say, "I don't believe you."

"What?" he said.

In a calm voice, she said, "This is like the erectile dysfunction thing again, Geoffrey."

"What are you talking about?" Geoffrey yelled. "It is not! That was due to stress—stress!—and besides, that problem has gone away. I did say I missed you, didn't I? Because I do. I really do. I'm just a little on edge. Possibly."

She was laughing at him over the line. "I miss you, too. Decide on a play. Don't pick Antony and Cleopatra, not for the first one."

"No, I want us to have an audience for that. It deserves to be seen. You deserve to be seen."

She sighed. "Thanks. You're very sweet. Tomorrow I'm going to call a locator service and give them your number."

He groaned. "Ellen."

"I am not going to be homeless." She paused. "Not any more than I already am."

"Okay, okay. I'll deal with it."

"Thank you. And, you know, maybe something fun. Maybe something French? Tartuffe? It's funny, at least...?"

"Huh." Geoffrey scratched his chin and wondered if he had brought any Molière with him or if it was all back at the house. "In English translation, though."

"Yes. Montreal has plenty of francophone theatres. There's no sense in trying to compete."

"True. I'll think about it."

"I only meant a comedy might be a nice change. Our lives are so full of change right now, why not continue the theme, right?"

"Mm. You have a point." A comfortable silence fell between them. Finally he said, "So, this weekend..."

"I was thinking I'd come up, we could stay in a hotel," she said emphatically, "and then we could look at houses. Or apartments, if they're large enough. I swear, Granny's house has spoiled me."

He listened to her talk about what she was hoping to find for a few minutes. Then she mentioned wanting a view of the water, which reminded Geoffrey of The Seagull and its love-cursed lake. Ellen would be a magnificent Irina, and it wasn't impossible to stage as a comedy as long as it was sharp, biting comedy that stung every character equally. Cut all of the weeping, nail down the timing of the zingers, cast strong comic actors as Dorn and Masha...and find a competent ingenue to play Nina. 

He could do it. They didn't want to be too ambitious on their maiden voyage.

"Are you still there?" Ellen asked.

"Sorry, yes. I mean, yes." He was already reaching for pencil and paper. "I had a thought."

"About a house?"

"Ah, no. No, not so much. Sorry."

She sighed. "You have a play in mind."

"Maybe? I don't know yet. I need to see if it's doable here. It may not be."

"Right. Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Good luck with whatever it is."

"Thank you. I love you."

"Love you, too. Don't forget about this weekend."

His directorial debut had gone as well as a novice director's could. In hindsight, he knew he'd let Susan get away with murder as Nina. That his grande dame, Sadie Pennyworth, had been beyond gracious both on and off the stage. That his Trigorin—thankfully not Jeremy Irons, who'd been on Broadway at the time—had been a good sport. That overall it had been a great experience.

That Oliver had given him. 

Geoffrey grabbed his notebook and went downstairs. The ghost light was on. The place was empty, as usual. Geoffrey took his customary seat in the fifth row and started to draw Sorin's house on the lake. In his head, he could hear Oliver's voice. "You can put the tableau for the play within the play down right. Maybe build a second story of the house across the left half of the stage?" 

"The study upstairs," he murmured along with the Oliver in his head, "and the garden here." Geoffrey looked up from his sketch because he could hear Oliver so clearly, but as usual, the real Oliver was gone. The ghost. The one he could see.

He focused on the ghost light. It had never kept Oliver away at New Burbage, but maybe...? Then in his head, Oliver was saying, "Well, don't dillydally. Draw in the study! We haven't got all night."

"Yes, we do," Geoffrey whispered, and in his mind there was an answering laugh. An answering clasp of his shoulder. A gentle, jovial, "Ah! So we do."

  
  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Three Slings & Arrows Podfics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089094) by [DesireeArmfeldtPodfic (DesireeArmfeldt)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldtPodfic)




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